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mind without the rod! How often must I say it?”
    “Bring them here, and I will speak to them.”
    “Speak? Speak? As you wish it, mistress.” And the old woman waddled out, still shaking her head and certain that she served a madwoman who must be humored at all costs.
    “I was thinking not of cost, Mistress Margaret, for I see you live in comfort,” resumed Brother Gregory, somewhat irritated by the interruption. His eye swept around the luxurious little room, an innovation even by London standards. On the ground floor with Roger Kendall’s hall, kitchen, and business offices, it was devoted entirely to his comfort and pleasure. Here the family could gather to hear readings, or simply talk and admire the roses in the back garden, which could be seen in somewhat distorted fashion through windows covered with real glass. Instead of the usual flooring of rushes, a brightly colored Oriental carpet spread beneath Brother Gregory’s feet. A rare, carved chest stood in one corner, and in the wide, ironbound locked chest that stood next to the writing table, could Brother Gregory have seen through its heavy lid, Roger Kendall’s greatest treasures were arrayed. There were, in addition to knickknacks that he had brought home from his travels abroad, nineteen beautifully copied volumes, handsomely bound in calfskin. When Brother Gregory had first been shown into this room, he had inspected it carefully and sniffed to himself, “A rich man, but of too luxurious a taste for decency in one not gently born.” Now, with careful gravity, he addressed the spoiled girl-wife of this luxury-loving worthy in what was probably going to be a fruitless attempt to instill some sense of literary taste into her writing.
    “It is not the cost of paper which is the issue here,” he went on. “Rather, I was thinking of the example of the Saints, the Sages, and the Ancients. They tell things to the point, with not so much digression.” He gestured to the sheets of writing. “Then can one gain benefits from their holy thoughts, and observations of God’s wonders.”
    “Are you saying that because I am a woman, I talk too much?”
    “Not that so much, but—well, yes. You digress too much and have no point. Each section, for example, might be based on some important moral lesson or reflection, and all worthless trivia pruned away from the important idea. But then,” he said, cocking his head sardonically, “on the other side, it might be said that elevating the trivial is a fault not exclusively confined to women.”
    “Still, I must go on as I began, for it is the only way I know.”
    Any further thoughts were cut off by the banging of the door flung open, as the nurse dragged in two furious, noisy little redheaded girls, only a year and a half apart in age. The elder, barely four years old, clutched the object of the quarrel, a bedraggled, half-dressed doll. Her great blue eyes sparked with righteous indignation. Her mop of auburn curls, never fully tamed by her hair ribbon, had shaken loose, giving the impression that a great struggle had just taken place. Her little gown was disordered, and even the freckles spotted across her nose seemed to blaze with wrath. The younger girl was a study in contrasts: her normally placid little face, which still retained the plump contours of babyhood, was swollen and tracked with tears, consciously shaped by its owner into a portrait of wronged grief.
    “She p-pulled my hair !” wailed the little one, pointing a pudgy finger at the silky, strawberry-blond waves above her ears.
    “Did not !” snapped the elder.
    “Girls, girls!” their mother addressed them in the calm voice of adult admonition. “Quarreling and lying, and in front of visitors, as well! Aren’t you ashamed?” They turned and stared at Brother Gregory, clearly not only unashamed, but sizing him up as a potential ally.
    “Sisters must love each other! They should help and share, not fight!” The older girl clutched the doll